by Brett Rutherford
Adapted from
Alcaeus of Messene.
The Greek Anthology, v,
10
I hate the love-god,
I really do.
Animals need none
of his interruptions
and do what they do
in time and season.
Why shoot at me
with those piercing arrows
when I am empty-pocketed
and all the streets are drenched
with rain and clotted mud?
I make a sorry sight
courting, all limp and soggy.
Must I go out
blind-folded now
so that my sight
of any bright-eyed
person does not
concur with the fall
of some random arrow?
What profits it to him
to burn so many mortal hearts?
Does Love have a quota to fill?
Or does he pursue me
with a particular relish
so I will write a poem
that will win some prize,
and, named in it,
the little god smirks.
